Author's Note: This story revolves around the Isle of Balduran from Tales of the Sword Coast (with some twists and alterations, of course), and takes place in the interim between my Baldur's Gate 1 fic, Death's Favored Daughter, and the events of Shadows of Amn (although you don't need to read Death's Favored Daughter to follow what's going on.) I've been fiddling around with the idea of writing a BG2 fic, but this short interquel just jumped out and demanded to be written first.

And a big warning that, although I'm giving this fic a tentative T-rating for now (it may change to M in a few chapters, depending how a certain segment goes), there's a great deal of very-much-not-G-rated content here. It is a story about werewolves, after all, so violence, gore, and wardrobe malfunctions abound. There is also cursing, general raunchiness, and implied sex. Hope that's a fair warning.

"Once you're lost
In twilight's blue
You don't find your way
The way finds you"
-Queens of the Stone Age, Someone's in the Wolf

1 – Storm Tossed

A doomed sea voyage. How had she not seen that one coming? She had, after all, helped slaughter most of the priesthood in Umberlee's own temple. Hells, she had personally opened the throat of the high priestess, up on the ramp over the temple's pool.

She hadn't thought much about the incident since then; the high priestess had struck first, after all, and Ashura and her companions had fought back in kind. But Umberlee wasn't the sort of goddess to care about fair fights, or who had backstabbed who first. Ashura should have realized that, once they were out in Umberlee's own domain on the open seas, the Bitch Queen herself would come seeking revenge.

Three days into the voyage from Ulgoth's Beard to Athkatla, when a raiding party of fish-men came swarming up the side of the ship and had to be repelled, Ashura had remembered the incident in the Water Queen's House. Same thing the next day, when they had to fight off more Sahuagin. She was reminded again eight days later, when they had to fend off a ship full of Nelanther pirates, and then three days after that, when the ship spent forty straight hours becalmed, the crew muttering all the while about the captain and his 'damned detour,' a feeling of mutiny in the air. Eventually a little tepid wind came blowing through, but whispers that the Bitch Queen was displeased and that the captain was a fool persisted.

So, on the nineteenth day of the voyage, when Ashura awakened to shouting up on the deck and winds whistling past the cabin's window, she wasn't particularly surprised. It seemed to still be midafternoon, but the skies outside had darkened and taken on a strange cast, and the ship was pitching more than usual, shaking her in her hammock.

A storm had arrived, it seemed. Umberlee was done with the foreplay.

Rolling out of her hammock and shaking off sleep, Ashura found her boots and her gloves. Shar-Teel was up and armored already, and Edwin stood beside her, arms crossed and wide awake. In the opposite hammock lay a purple lump: Alora, still fast asleep. No surprise there. The halfling could probably sleep through anything.

Boots and gloves now laced into place, Ashura grabbed her swordbelt and started out through the hold, every step a fight against the pitch and roll of the ship.

"A storm," Edwin muttered behind her, stating the obvious. The roll of the deck had him bracing his hands against the walls as he went, each shift threatening to batter him.

Up top, the seas churned and much of the sky had gone black. Sails snapped, the winds alternated between a whistle and a roar, and over it all came the frantic shouts of the sailors.

Louder still was the bitter argument up on the castle deck, between Captain Kieres and one of the ship's passengers. They stood face-to-face, the captain red-faced and roaring, while the other man –Mendas the scholar– stood firm. The scholar had his hand planted on the ship's wheel, for some reason, and Baresh, his assistant, stood behind him. Both were big, imposing men, despite wearing robes in the style of Oghmanyte scribes. That had always bothered Ashura a bit. Reminded her of Koveras.

The captain was trying to turn the wheel, but Mendas had a firm grip. "This is direction!" he shouted. "Direction we agreed upon! Island spotted on horizon! And payment is made!"

"You can bloody take it back!" Captain Kieres roared. "All of it! The deal's off! We're not barreling into a damned storm!"

Well that's not good. Ashura shouldered her way past a pair of sailors who were struggling with the mid-mast, approaching the steps that let up to the higher deck. Her hand clutched her longsword's hilt.

"No!" Mendas went on. "Too long have I waited! Too much delay! My people will have this ship-home, even if we must repair after storm!"

"What are you even talking…oh bloody Hells." The captain released the wheel and stepped back, reaching for his sword instead. One of his crewmates had edged his way in behind Baresh, and following the captain's cue the man drew a blade of his own. "This isn't even about Balduran's treasure, is it? That's just a tale you spun!"

Edwin and Ashura shared a look, his eyes seeming to say: 'Well, get on with the stabbing, would you? Before this fool steers us fully into the storm!' She was inclined to agree.

Ashura's longsword slipped out ahead of her as she mounted the steps, frost smoking off its edge. Both of the scholars were unarmed, and about to be surrounded on three sides. Maybe they'd just surrender, and if not, well it would be easy to-

There was a great ripping sound, and the forms of Mendas and his assistant blurred, then seemed to burst. Fabric tore, flying away in frayed strips, and for a blink Ashura thought the pair of men had exploded. She backed up against the railing, sword-arm raised to protect her face from flying chunks of flesh or bone.

But no, that wasn't an explosion – instead they were expanding; blurring into forms that were dark, shaggy, and immense. A meaty arm shot out from the place where Mendas had been, claws wrenching the captain's shoulder and digging in deep, eliciting a scream of shock and pain. At the same time the creature that had been Baresh whirled and tackled the sailor behind him.

Beneath Ashura's feet the deck pitched and juddered, the ship sliding down some monstrous wave. Her back pressed against the castle deck's railing, and she braced herself with her sword's pommel, struggling to unsheathe her offhand blade and straighten up.

A great flash of lightning lit the sky, throwing Ashura's shadow across the deck and illuminating the creatures – curled tails, lanky arms, long muzzles, sharp ears, shining eyes and all. Umberlee was going all out, it seemed: not only had they hit a storm, but a mutiny as well, and on top of that the mutineers were-

"Werewolves," Edwin muttered, again stating the obvious. He was peaking over the top of the steps, near Ashura's feet.

One good glimpse in the bright white light, then the creatures were blurs of muscle, fur, and slashing teeth. The Baresh-thing shot up from the deck, lifting the sailor that it had attacked and hurling him through the air. Limp and spinning –with one arm now barely attached– the sailor flew past Ashura and grazed the top of Edwin's head. There was a curse in Mulhorandi, and a louder shout from Shar-Teel down below, along with the clink of her mail.

The Mendas-thing had gripped Captain Kieres by both shoulders, lifting him off the deck to clamp its jaws tight around his neck. Several fierce, sawing shakes followed the bite – until the captain's head came flopping loose and fell from his shoulders, striking the deck.

(Werewolves. Yeah. That was the name for these things. Maybe Montaron's old short sword –the offhand blade that Ashura now held– would come in handy. Garrick had once mentioned that the weapon's edge had been tempered alchemically with silver, making it [supposedly] good for slicing up devils, undead creatures, and lycanthropes.)

That all flashed through Ashura's mind as the captain's headless body was unceremoniously discarded and the deck began to pitch the other way, rising under her feet. Now it was time to test Garrick's guess.

She launched herself from the railing as uphill became downhill and the creatures both stumbled to remain upright. Gravity was on her side, for the moment. A leap and she closed on the Baresh-creature, longsword leading the way (silvered blade or no, she wasn't getting too close if she could help it).

The beast whirled to meet her. A swipe of its paw sailed over her head. She bent in and lunged, momentum combining with a full-bodied stab to punch the blade square through the creature's exposed belly. With a high, ear-splitting yelp and the scuffing of boots and claws, they both went tumbling aft – striking the rails.

They tangled together. She elbowed the beast, pushing away. The ship pitched again and they both went rolling across the deck. The back of her head smacked the floorboards and light flashed (maybe lightning, maybe a head wound, hard to tell…) before her eyes. There was a rising roar, right by her ear. A tearing at her side. She strained and struggled. Still had the beast impaled, so she tried to drag her longsword up and open the damn thing's guts some more.

The fury body shifted, and she was tugged along. Now she was upright, on her knees. Slather splashed her face and jaws snapped close. The beast reared back, but that gave her enough space to swing her free arm up. Her short sword caught the creature under its muzzle, stabbing through jaw and tongue and palate and brain.

There!

Again the deck rolled, and she went stumbling against the beast's chest. Its back struck the rails, flailing and clawing. Wood groaned – then snapped, and the beast's head and shoulders flopped out over the raging waters. Ashura's longsword dug into the deck, keeping them stable as the creature's struggles became an uncontrolled shiver. That didn't last long. The creature slackened and shrank; wavering as its fur receded and was replaced by pale flesh.

Ashura shot to her feet and yanked her blades free, turning quick as she could. The other beast was still alive and roaring, but thankfully it seemed to be enmeshed in sticky ropes that had tangled up its arms and legs and pressed it to the far railing. One of Edwin's webbing spells, it looked like. There were singe-marks in the creature's fur as well, and the red wizard had backed up into a far corner of the castle deck, firelight dimming at his fingertips.

With another roar the beast ripped the strands away from one of its arms. That webbing wouldn't last long. As Ashura advanced, the creature tore another arm free, rocking forward on the balls of its feet. This beast —Mendas— seemed quite a bit larger than the other one had been. Taller. Thicker. Less lanky.

It (well…he. It was quite apparent from this angle that the werewolf was a he) bent forward, legs straining against the last thread of webbing. Its jaws split wide, head tilting for another great, guttural roar.

Side-stance, Ashura pointed her short sword at the creature's eye and slipped in closer. Her blade zig-zagged, feinting, and then stabbing in, but a paw-swipe batted it aside.

Wood groaned, the railing strained, and then there was a snapping sound as more of Edwin's webbing broke. Claws whistled past Ashura's head and she twisted and lunged in for the creature's left side. Her longsword sliced, but reverberated off the wolf-thing's hide, as if it had struck steel. A backhanded blow sent her staggering.

The beast shrugged its way fully free of the webbing, muscles coiled. Its teeth and gums were bared; blood-smeared ivory.

There was a glint of steel and motion at the werewolf's side. Shar-Teel's sword flashed in and struck the creature's ribs, a full-bodied blow that drew a shallow cut. The beast ignored her, and the wound, lunging for Ashura instead.

She leapt aside – or tried to. The beast pivoted, followed, and a wall of black fur and fury struck her. Pain flared –bones jarring– and they fell together. The creature's weight crushed her to the deck. Something bright seemed to streak before her face (lightning? Claws?), and a hot pain flared across her cheek.

Ashura was snarling in frustration, but that was drowned out by the howl right beside her ear. The damned thing reared up to clamp its jaws on her neck, and the image of the Captain Kieras' severed, tumbling head flashed before her.

Frustration became fury. Her blood caught fire; surging and raging. The jaws snapped on emptiness as she twisted onto her side and pressed her fists and the crossguard of her longsword against the monster's belly, and then she threw the beast off.

Bulky and flailing, the werewolf hit the rolling deck and slid along to strike the railing as Ashura shot to her feet. She locked eyes with the wolf, and there she saw a faint, golden reflection. Her eyes were burning. Mendas' rage had given way to confusion.

Good! See that?! You're not the only beast here! Her veins were on fire; muscles taut and giddy. The surge of divine strength would be brief –she knew– but for now it was invigorating. She advanced.

Wary now, the wolf-thing pressed its paws to the deck and righted itself, baring its teeth to issue a low growl. Shar-Teel was threading her way in nearby, trying to flank the beast. Fat raindrops splattered the deck, blown near-horizontal by the howling winds.

Shar-Teel lunged in and slashed, but —without even looking— the wolf-thing caught her sword, gripped it like it was a stick, and shoved her back, leaping for Ashura once again.

And now it was looming before her in midair, and there was nothing to do but react. To lean in. To duck low. To slash and try to open the creature's gut. The longblade reverberated off ribs; barely nicked the wolf's hide – then the creature had her sword-arm in its crushing grip. The wolf tried to wrench her arm from its socket – snarling and yanking. Its other claw rose before her, and Ashura's shortblade shot up to meet it, stabbing through the palm.

The paw flew back. She tried another stab but a meaty forearm struck hers. She grunted and she growled. Her arm slammed back; grappling, pushing, matching its strength with hers (for the moment.)

The wolf wriggled, and one of his paws dug into her back, gripping her in a fumbled bear-hug. The other paw yanked again at her arm, and her longsword was wrenched away, clattering to the deck. She shook. Her offhand blade shifted to an underhand grip. If she could find a good angle to stab...

Jaws came clamping down, teeth burying deep into Ashura's shoulder, but before the beast could shake and worry the wound her left hand lifted and then came down, burying her shortblade in the side of the beast's neck. Hot blood pumped against her hand and the hilt of the sword. There was blood everywhere, really – hard to tell how much was hers and how much was the wolf's. She fought for breath, her shoulder screaming as teeth pulled and flesh tore, and then they both went tumbling.

The beast fell back and struck the railing, overbalanced, and together they went over. The raging sea rushed up to meet them.

Ice cold waters, churning all around. Then she was on fire. Sweating. Drowning in sweat and smothered by fur. (The beast? No. This was different.)

Then all was ice again. Violent tremors shook her. At some point the waters receded. At some point (–points. It all kept shifting…) she felt as if she were somewhere soft, held and cradled by another warm body. Other times she shivered alone in the void.

She drifted in and out of time, finding herself in different places; strange vistas that flowed one after the other. Different places, and each time she was something different as well.

Now she was a man, light as a shadow; dancing upon the rooftops of an ancient city of mudbrick and limestone. Tonight four princes would die by her hand, and the course of the city would be forever changed.

In through a balcony, she (he - the shadow-man) shouldered past silk curtains and crept up to an overstuffed bed were a corpulent man slept, a woman at each side. No hesitation and all fluid motion, her dagger found the prince's heart and her hand smothered his cries of shock at the same time. She had turned and fled from the bedroom before the concubines even stirred, racing across the balcony and on to the next target.

The wind rustled her hair as she ran and leapt from the rails, dropping - dropping - dropping towards the street, night-air rushing by to buffet her face…

…and now that face was covered in fur. Now she was a beast.

Her paws struck the floor of a forest; the street long gone. She leapt and she raced. Leaves and branches whipped by; the night dark as pitch, yet every detail somehow shining before her. The scent of her prey was pungent, driving her on.

She twisted past a tree, and now she saw him, his arms pumping and bare feet slipping on the moss and the mud. The man stank of terror, each breath coming out in choked gasps.

He ran. She gained on him. Soon the man's hot blood would fill her throat, and his flesh would feed her cubs. She braced for the final leap and…

…and now the her that was the shadow-light man stood before the her that was a shaggy beast. The man reached out, as if to pat the creature (a she-wolf) on the head, and the wolf responded with a low, wary growl. The man grinned at that, his smile all teeth. It was the grin of a skull.

Then the man and the beast were gone. Now she was a raven, with black wings that shrouded the world. Her claws dangled above the passing earth, scythe-like and stretching out to reap. From her razor-beak she cawed, and the heavens echoed and shook. Eventually she sailed into another place and time.

It went on and on. She drifted and she shifted, flying or racing or leaping through the fever dreams. Wherever she went it was always night. The darkness churned…

…then, at some point, light began to filter through. Her tremors subsided. She found herself cocooned in warmth, beneath a soft fur blanket. With some effort, Ashura opened her bleary eyes. She blinked several times – blinked herself awake.

There was a blurry form beside her; a person. Its face resolved into that of a sleeping woman, sharing the blanket but on the other side of the…bed? A little more blinking and inspection, and she found that they were both on the floor, laying on separate, stuffed matrices that had been pushed together. The walls were made of some sort of wood, woven in a basket-pattern, and above them the roof was thatched straw.

Shifting to take it all in, Ashura winced. Her shoulder was sore — Hells, everything was sore. She remembered the teeth digging in, and the plunge to the ocean; saltwater stinging her wounds as she fought the waves and tried to keep her sword and swim at the same time.

There were bandages wrapped tightly around her shoulder now. Otherwise she seemed to be naked. Her eyes stung, her head ached, and her throat was parched. "Where-?" she croaked, pushing the blanked aside and trying to sit up. "What's going on?"

The strange woman stirred and rolled over, rubbing her eyes. Her skin was lightly tanned and her hair was a frazzled, brown rat's nest. She looked to be rather young; twentyish, perhaps. Around Ashura's age. "You awaken?" the woman asked in Chondathan, her accent odd. "And soon. So soon." Sitting up, the stranger reached out, pressing the back of her hand to Ashura's forehead. "Hm. No fever. Is strange. We think you would sleep all the day, at least."

"Uh…"

The woman shook herself. "Apologies. You are frightened. Is strange place."

"Eh. Not the first time…" Her words came out in a croak, and then she coughed. "Not the first time," she repeated, clearer now, "that I've woken up in a strange bed, feeling like shit and wearing nothing but bandages."

The woman gave her a puzzled look, then leaned in and –for some odd reason– sniffed a few times. "Hm. Of hearty blood, you are. You smell familiar, and yet strange."

"Uh…" Ashura repeated, but now the woman was turning away and scooting to the edge of her cot, reaching for something on the floor. Her back was a latticework of scars, but Ashura only got a quick glimpse before some sort of garment slipped over the woman's head and covered them up. There had been raised marks across the woman's chest as well, and an abstract tattoo at her collarbone. The garment looked like something between a tunic and a dress, gray and roughspun.

"Is too early for her rising," a man's voice came from behind some sort of woven grass partition. He sounded a bit sleepy. "She needs lie back down. Rest the morning."

"I'm okay," Ashura objected. Not exactly true, but she hardly felt like going back to bed with all the questions that were starting to race through her head. Where was she exactly? Who were these people? What had happened to her things? (Her enchanted boots, especially.) And what had happened to the ship? The crew? Her friends? "I just need some water."

"Hm," the man said. "I will fetch. And heat the broth. But take things easy." His next words were in a different language, obviously directed at the strange woman rather than Ashura. "Eius interrogari debet sar."

"Ita frater," the woman agreed.

Ashura's eyebrows rose. Those were words that she recognized: old Thorass, mixed with an Iluskan word or two.

The strange woman knelt, reaching for Ashura's bandages. "I check and clean wounds," she said, switching back to her stilted Chondathan. "Yes?"

"Sure." Ashura scooted to face the stranger fully. "Thank you for…tending to me? Guess you found me in the ocean?"

"Yes. We go to check damage in the night, after storm passes. Solianna finds you on shore, cold from water and torn at shoulder and face." The woman tapped her own chest. The tattoo was on prominent display there, above the neckline of her dress: a sort of stylized pattern in bright blue and ochre-red. "I am Delainy." She gestured towards the grass curtain. "My brother is Durlyle. We apprentice under clan's wise woman…once. Know of healing."

"Ashura Adrian." A curt nod. "Nice to meet you."

As she pulled the last of the bandages away from Ashura's shoulder, Delainy's eyes widened, and she stifled a gasp. "Is not right. Wounds sealed clean. Hm. I treated with goldroot salve and blessings of the Hunter, but still…" She shook her head. "And there is no sickness. You chilled from time in sea, so I warm you through night and expecting sickness in morning. But you...strong, like you have beast-blood in you. Curious."

Ashura tried not to cringe. Beastly blood – yeah – that was one way of putting it. Hopefully the woman would not pry. And hopefully Edwin wouldn't hear about that '…I warm you through night…' thing. He'd get ideas.

"Brother?" Delainy asked, turning. "The water?"

An arm appeared from behind the curtain, holding out a clay jug, then disappeared once Delainy had taken it and handed it to Ashura. She took several long, greedy gulps. Eventually Delainy made her slow and pulled the jug away. "Careful now." Then, using a cloth, the healer dabbed water onto the bite-marks at Ashura's shoulder. The area was splotched with raw red and bruised purple, but each puncture did indeed seem to have sealed.

"Your clothing hangs here," the man behind the partition said. "Still damp. We care for it."

"My boots..?" Ugh. If she had lost those to the sea…

"There are footwraps we found on you, yes."

Thank Tymora. "Good. And the sword-belt?" She had a vague memory of locking her short sword into its scabbard as she struggled in the waters. With her longsword dropped on the ship's deck and her armor left back in the cabin, she hoped that she had at least kept the one blade.

"Oh yes," Delainy said. "Sword has all in clan talking. With moon-metal edge."

"A sign, some think," Durlyle added from behind the curtain. "I am uncertain. But in any case, sword and belt are here."

"Thanks again," Ashura said. "Where are we exactly?"

"Island home," replied Delainy. She had finished applying some sort of greasy salve to the injuries, and now she wound a fresh bandage under Ashura's arm. "Is not large. And…outsiders rare to see. Some distrust them. But they can be good omen! Thirteen seasons back, Taloun washes up. He teaches us many new outside ways; fishing and farming."

The bandages now tied into place, Delainy opened a nearby wicker basket and dug through, pulling out some sort of garment. Looked like another plain, short dress. "Here. You wear until your clothing dries."

"Thanks." Raising her arms, Ashura slipped into the dress, then stood, straightening the fabric and trying not to wobble on her sore legs.

"You still need rest," Delainy observed.

"Yeah, maybe." Ashura sat back down on top of the blanket. There were still nagging questions, though.

The partition rustled, and the other occupant of the hut finally appeared, a wide clay pot between his hands. Again, Ashura's brows rose a bit.

The young man who approached was dressed in just a simple loincloth, impressively lithe and muscled, with the same shaggy brown hair as his sister, worn long. His face was sharp, eyes observant, and like his sister he seemed to bear many scars. Each looked like a set of claw marks, crisscrossing his chest, his (nicely taut) abdomen, and the upper portion of one of his thighs; white streaks of upraised skin, cutting through the faint trails of his body hair. There was also a blue and red tattoo stamped upon his upper chest, identical to his sister's.

Kneeling, Durlyle titled the pot towards her. "Bone and vegetable broth. Will return your strength."

"Thanks." There appeared to be no utensils, so she took the bowl and sipped. Durlyle sat down across from her, cross-legged, and after drinking a bit of the warm, tasteless liquid, Ashura asked her next question. "So, were there others like me? Last night? Washed up on the shore?"

The siblings glanced at each other, faces tightening. "A few found, yes," Durlyle stated, his tone now cautious. "But…others were drowned. I am sorry."

"Ah." Her stomach clenched, and she looked down at the bowl, pondering it for a time. "Well, I want to see the dead. When I can." She definitely couldn't lay back and rest now. One way or the other, she had to know what had happened to her companions. To her friends.

The pair of battered rowboats, propped up on the beach with broken oars, made for the most pathetic excuse for a shelter that Edwin Odesseiron had ever seen, let alone been forced to huddle beneath. He glowered out into the dim light and the foggy woods, cross-legged, with a longsword laid out across his lap. He chafed from salt and sand (and impatience), biding the miserable minutes away as they waited for the rain to abate. It had just become misting patter now, at least.

In addition to Edwin, seven others shared the improvised lean-to. Five of those seven were women –cold, shivering, and huddling close for warmth– and that fact should have hung a silver lining on this abysmal situation.

Not so! There were no nubile wenches to be comforted here. Rather, Edwin found himself sandwiched between the pigtailed ogress herself —who had snarled and shot him murderous looks the handful of times he had accidentally brushed her shoulder — and a rat-faced woman-sailor with matted hair, who smelled as if the closest she had come to a bath in months had been their recent ride through briny storm-winds.

While Shar-Teel bristled at the possibility of physical contact, Rat-Face showed no such misgivings (unfortunately!) The rodent clung to Edwin's hooded cloak and robes, constantly sniffling and snorting, heedless of the snot that no doubt flowed dangerously close to the expensive fabric. The instant that he was able to crawl out of the shelter he would simply have to cast a cleaning cantrip on his robes (he had been planning to anyway, but still…) This whole 'crew' of grubby sailors could use a thorough cleansing as well. Preferably with fire.

In addition to the sniffling and the shivering, the occasional snore sounded just behind him. That was where the irritating halfling girl had curled up into a tiny ball, deep beneath the lean-to where only she could fit. The imp-girl's round, pudgy face was as serene as ever, and the position she had found reminded Edwin somehow of the yippy little dogs that his aunts back in Thay were fond of fussing over. Edwin almost envied her complete immunity to discomfort, though it doubtless came from her head being too empty to comprehend the mess they were in. Ignorance is bliss, and all of that.

Eh. At least he was not in as miserable straights as the shivering simpletons around him. Thanks to the wards inscribed into Edwin's tattoos he felt no ill effects from mundane heat or cold. He could stroll through a snow storm or over a sunbaked desert in as much comfort as he would in the climate-controlled halls of the estates at Surthay. It was a point of pride that he had chosen such practical tattoos, useful more days than not (especially in these barbarous lands). Now, if only he could ward himself against saltwater-chafe and foul odors-

"Rain's let up," Shar-Teel grunted, shifting beside him.

"Hm. So it has." Looking down at his lap, Edwin frowned at the sword. Varscona was its name: a fine weapon, with golden trim at the hilt and crossguard, along with a ruby that supposedly housed the spirit of a bitter Sharan priestess. If one looked at the weapon through magically-enhanced eyes –as Edwin once had– they would see the waves of cold hatred that radiated out from that ruby, powering the blade. Slipping his hands beneath the weapon, Edwin lifted it. "Your sword, if you wish."

"I'm not touching that damn thing," Shar-Teel said with a shake of her head.

"Hm. Your choice." Foolish sentimentality. Apparently the sword had once been used to kill one of the big wench's friends.

Careful not to cut himself, Edwin turned the sword around and slid it into the extra-dimensional space within a tiny pouch at his belt. At the least, he could sell the sword when they reached civilization. A shame about its owner, though. It seemed such a waste, although…would the Lord of Murder truly let one of his Children die from something as mundane as drowning? Was not murder (especially between his Children) the entire point?

(Bah! He was being hopeful and sentimental. Still, the notion persisted...)

Wriggling out from beneath the shelter, Edwin stood and stretched, followed by Shar-Teel. As soon as he could, he intoned a spell, sending a cleansing shimmer up from the hem of his robes all the way to the collar. Ah. Much better.

"Finally," Shar-Teel snarled, glaring at him. "Was getting sick of sharing the same stale air with you." Standing straight, they were roughly the same height.

"A feeling more than mutual, you unwashed, gibbering ogress." For emphasis (and just in case she thought to take a swat at him) Edwin swiveled and put some distance between them, examining the beach that they had washed up upon. A very narrow spit of sand, and beyond it towered great trees, their wide canopies woven together by thick green leaves that shaded the slimy, moss-covered earth. An ancient, temperate forest, it seemed, similar to the echoing woods of Rashemen. No doubt there would be irritating spirits to deal with here as well; dryads or treants or pixies or whatnot.

Hands close to his pockets (and the spell components within), Edwin started forward. He had gone about four paces when he felt an impish presence, and looking down it came as no surprise that Alora was skipping along beside him. "That's a big, scary forest," the halfling stated, stupid and obvious.

"Bah. Just a collection of sticks and brambles. If we are to escape this miserable place, we must explore it." He started forward once again, but only made it two strides before a long, keening howl erupted from deep within the woods, stopping him in his tracks. The baying wolf was joined by another, and then another and another.

Scowling ahead, Edwin found himself pinching the components of one of his more potent fire spells, thoughts of setting the entire wood ablaze running through his mind. Sadly, it was a bit too wet for such a fire to catch.

A big, scary forest indeed.